


A Familiar Feeling

by darkblood



Series: Your Voice [2]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkblood/pseuds/darkblood
Summary: A retelling of "The Touch" from the mute's point of view.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Series: Your Voice [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1833991
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

It was a sight the mute knew all too well; tired men away from home for too long. Only some paid attention as the party of monks rolled into camp, and at those who did turn their way, the mute made sure to keep his head down. The last thing he needed was for his past to catch up with him after all these years of trying to forget.

The whole camp left him itchy. It was the last place he wanted to be at the moment. If he had things his way, he’d grab Diarmuid and head back to the monastery, relic be damned. It was safe there for both body and soul, not like here at this camp. What hung over this camp would destroy their insides and outsides before they’d even notice, and he wanted nothing to do with it. 

Alas, it was not up to him. He was there because the monks had to escort their relic. He was there because Diarmuid was, for he would follow that boy to the ends of the earth. It was the least he could do for the one who pulled him from Hell itself. 

At the earliest sign of freedom, the mute broke away from the monks who had begun talking about the rest of their trip. He didn’t need to know, nor did he truly care. He would follow regardless. No eye contact was made as he walked to the fringes of the grounds to set up his own miniature camp, close enough to see the monks, yet far enough to be a safe distance from the soldiers. He cleared away brush, created a fire, and grabbed a decent sized log, large enough for two people. It was more likely that Diarmuid would stay glued to the side of the other monks, but a part of him was hopeful. He enjoyed the novice’s company more than he could ever show without words. 

Well, there was one way, but he was sure it would break the boy.

The sound of laughter caught his attention. The mute straightened, squinting at a cluster of men in the distance, and recognized the smaller figure dressed in all black. He quickly made his way over to see what the commotion was about, watching two inebriated men talking with Diarmuid, one holding him in place. As soon as Diarmuid made a noise of distress, he was practically running, not even stopping to think twice as he grabbed the shirtless man’s arm and torqued it, simultaneously pulling Diarmuid away from the other men. He let go once Diarmuid was safely behind him, out of reach from the warriors. 

The harmed man glared at him, baring teeth as he gripped his wrong limb, and for the first time since they entered camp, the mute stared back, wielding equally vicious eyes. The other man eventually backed down, and turned to the mass of onlookers. 

“Called it, Rainier. Boy through and through. Pay up you desperate fuck.”

The other men laughed as the one supposedly known as Rainier grumbled about the other one being a pervert. The mute watched the man carefully, making sure he wasn’t going to suddenly do something he’d quickly regret.

“You holy men are so easy to fuck with,” laughed the second man, friend of the shirtless pervert. The words of someone with plenty of experience. 

“For men who walk in the light of God, you do not act as such,” Diarmuid said from behind him. 

The laughing pair suddenly stopped and straightened, eyes sharp as they looked down at the young monk.

“You know nothing of the world, little boy,” the shirtless one hissed. He started to walk towards Diarmuid to amplify his threatening tone, but the mute blocked his way. The man backed down easily enough, but kept spitting harsh words at Diarmuid. “If you think the world is anything like your little spit of land hidden away, you’ll be sorely mistaken. You know not of what we have seen, what we have done. The feel of blood running through your fingers, the touch of cold flesh of a friend, hell, even the touch of a woman is beyond your knowledge.” 

With each word, the mute felt a familiar sickness scrape his insides. He knew all of those things all too well. He could still feel them, for they haunted his dreams.

“Doubt he even knows the touch of himself,” added the other man, laughing heartily as more men joined him. 

“Either go back to living in a hole, or learn the ways of the world, boy, before you say such things to men like us, who sacrifice our lives for this holy war,” the man addressed Diarmuid one last time before spitting on the ground and walking away.

The second man said lowly in their native tongue, “Die young, you ignorant brat,” and spat as well before joining his companion as they headed towards the rest of the men. 

The mute’s mind screamed to strike the man down for his comment, but he behaved himself. If he started a fight, he’d be putting Diarmuid and the other monks at risk. The only solace he could take from it was that Diarmuid was oblivious to what the man said, as Diarmuid knew nothing of the language. He looked down at his friend and gestured towards his small side camp he had started, hoping the other would follow as he headed that direction. Diarmuid was thankfully right on his heels. 

He stoked the fire and readjusted some of the camp, then sat down beside Diarmuid on the log, purposefully placing himself between the boy and the other camp for safety.

“Thank you,” said Diarmuid softly. 

The mute nodded in acknowledgement, then gave the perimeter another visual sweep before letting himself relax and listen to his companion talk. 

“I’m … I hope we leave here soon. These men are far from good company.”

As Diarmuid spoke, he hugged himself, gripping his biceps hard enough to pale his knuckles. The urge to simply take Diarmuid home grew stronger. Instead of having them leave that second, the mute grabbed one of his hands and pried it away from his arm so the mute didn’t have to keep watching Diarmuid hurt himself, even if it was only mildly so. At that, Diarmuid let go of his other arm as well, seemingly surprised by his own actions, and relocated his hands into his lap.

“Sorry,” he spoke softly. “I shouldn’t let them get to me… and yet …I don’t … I don’t like the way they touched me, nor the words they said.”

The mute had to bite his tongue to not let his face show any emotion. They touched him? In what way? Judging how uncomfortable Diarmuid looked, it couldn’t have been good. Now he wished he had ripped that man’s arm clean off instead of just twisting it. He let himself take a breath to calm down, and placed a hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder, a far safer and loving touch than what he had received earlier.

“I’ve lived at the monastery my whole life. It’s where I learned everything. I thought I had learned everything I needed to know, and then… Then they say such things, things I don’t understand, and I don’t know if I’m _supposed_ to know them or not, or if it was simply a lie in order to make me look foolish for their amusement.” 

He wished they were lies. They were parts of the world that the mute wanted to forget about, that he never wanted Diarmuid to see, though it was not his place to shelter the novice like that. If Diarmuid had to learn about the poison of the world, the man would at least be by his side through it all, as long as he could help it. He gripped Diarmuid’s shoulder a bit more in hopes of conveying in the smallest way that he’d be there for the younger.

“Am I really so ignorant of the world? Is it wrong?”

He felt his face morph into one of sadness, and let his hand move from Diarmuid’s shoulder and run through the boy’s hair until it rested on the back of his neck. It wasn’t wrong to only know the good of the world. It was Diarmuid, after all, that showed the mute that such kindness still existed, hidden from the blood and the pain that he had been bathed in. He watched Diarmuid dip his head and take a breath, then looked the mute in the eyes.

“Have you seen what they have seen?”

It was a long awaited question, one he didn’t exactly look forward to answering, but it seemed the time was finally here. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and readied himself for remembering the worst years of his life as he nodded.

“Have you felt the touch of blood?”

Yes. A thousand times. Both warm and cold, both his own as well as others. He knew the feel and smell all too well. He gave a nod.

“The touch of the dead?”

Yes. Newly dead as well as long gone, to the point all heat had left their bodies. Some were those who he considered friends, though most were those of the enemy, a blurred title at the time. He nodded once again.

“The touch of a woman?”

The mute clenched his jaw. It was only once, back when he was far younger, and it was an experience he hadn’t wanted in the first place. It was after that he thought he would never crave to be intimate with another again. He was proven wrong as of late. He reluctantly nodded.

Diarmuid had his usual thoughtful look about him, the look when he was trying to understand the world. He slowly asked, “Does it mean to be cared for? Like when I was sick, and you and Brother Ciaran would take care of me? Or is it… something else…”

The mute looked down, brushing hair from his face as he realized that wasn’t something he could really explain without words. He looked back to Diarmuid, hoping he would read the situation correctly on his own.

“Hm,” he softly thought aloud. “Is it…” The mute watched as Diarmuid’s brain made the connections. “Is it as… when the sheep copulate…”

He was suddenly very aware that he was teaching a holy man about sex. A part of him wanted to backpedal and abandon this conversation, but it was unfair that the monks never taught him basic human activities such as that, as he was certain nearly all of the other monks experienced it at one point or another. Apparently, it was up to him to teach Diarmuid such simple things, though without the use of words, this was going to be tough.

He slowly nodded to Diarmuid’s question.

“Oh,” Diarmuid breathed out in understanding. “I see.” He was silent for a moment, and the mute looked on with slight pity. “So … so if a touch of a woman means… that… then, what does the touch of oneself mean?”

For a moment, the mute’s brain shut down. Did that mean Diarmuid had never… no. That can’t be right. That’s just human nature to explore their own body. In all these years, not once had Diarmuid masturbated?

“Do you know what it means?”

Shit, he really hadn’t. As he nodded, he came to the realization this was going to be a lot harder than he thought. 

The mute removed his hand from Diarmuid’s neck and looked away, thinking quickly. How the hell does one explain masturbating without words? Maybe he should just stop now while he was ahead. He gave a small glance at Diarmuid, who was waiting patiently, his eyes alight with eagerness for information. He wished it wasn’t so hard to deny the boy anything. He _had_ to do it, the boy _had_ to know … right?

He huffed to himself in determination, and perhaps to feign bravery, as he readjusted himself on the log to face Diarmuid. He raised his dominant hand, moving it slightly before lightly tapping his groin. He nervously watched Diarmuid as he tried to wrap his head around what just happened.

Eventually, he asked in confusion, “But… why?”

The man tilted his head in his own confusion. 

“What purpose does it serve? Being with a woman generally aims towards reproduction, but why… uh… prepare oneself if not to reproduce?”

The mute chewed the inner part of his lip. The act was for oneself, not preparation for another. It was to relieve tension, or for personal pleasure. It was also something shameful one did when they desired someone unattainable…

“That’s… a weird question to ask, isn’t it?”

The question wasn’t weird in itself. However, it was going to be hard to relay without words. It’s not like he could explain pleasure without actually showing it, so he tried his best to think of an alternate way.

In the end, he chose to tap his chest quickly to try and mimic a fluttering heart.

“Heart?” Diarmuid thought aloud. “To… get one’s heart racing?”

He nodded.

“Like when you’re scared?”

He nodded again.

“Is… is the act scary?”

Scary? Considering his first sexual act was far from pleasant, he couldn’t exactly say no. Then again, when masturbating in secret, there is that fear that someone could walk in. In the end, he gave a partial shrug.

Diarmuid was quiet, then carefully asked, “...have you done it?”

If he tried to use his voice, he was sure nothing would come out due to the giant lump that formed in his throat. Of course he had done it. There was no way to count the number of times he had done it. He had done it more in the past year or two than he had ever done in his whole life prior to the monastery. Though, he’d never admit such things to the other monks. But to Diarmuid, so filled with curiosity and innocence, he couldn’t lie. The mute nodded once more. 

Diarmuid was quiet for some time, watching the fire, thinking, all the while guilt and nerves strangled the mute.

“Why?”

His heart nearly dropped into his stomach. 

_You_.

**_You_** **.**

**_You were the reason_ **, he screamed in his head, guilt gripping him tighter. He hadn’t wanted it to happen, but he was too weak to fight off the feelings that seemed to drown him these recent years. They came out of nowhere, slowly sneaking up behind him before they dug their claws into his back, dragging him down until all normalcy was gone and only an aching love remained. A love he could not show, a love that would never be reciprocated. Even now, discussing it, _thinking_ about it was mixing up his insides and his pants were becoming uncomfortable. 

The man then realized that Diarmuid was looking at him, still confused. His hand suddenly found it’s way onto the mute’s knee, and his eyes almost looked pleading. He just wants to know, right? To understand. Though the mute wasn’t sure if the boy would ever understand how much his touch burned into the man’s skin. 

It’s not wrong, the thing he wanted to do. He was just teaching, that’s all. It wasn’t for his own desperate urges, it was for education. It had to be. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to face Diarmuid after this.

He took a deep breath, tried to swallow as much fear as he could, then urged the novice to come closer. 

The mute arranged them so they were facing each other, knees touching for his own sick needs. He started to undo his pants, then stopped and considered that it was not a wise choice to simply whip it out in front of someone that’s never had any sexual experience whatsoever. So, he grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it off, draping it over his lap, one hand under, one hand over. He secured it beneath him so it wouldn’t fall off, yet had enough room to move his hand properly out of sight. Then, he used his free hand to motion for Diarmuid to pay attention to his face, so he could somewhat understand the kind of pleasure it could bring. Diarmuid stared back, a small sign of nervousness showing through, but determination to learn at the forefront. When Diarmuid nodded in understanding, he let himself start.

Perhaps it was the touch against his knees, or Diarmuid’s eyes upon him, but whatever the reason, everything seemed to double in intensity. Even the slightest movement of his hand sent shockwaves, and he easily slipped away from the world around him. It took him a while to realize that Diarmuid’s eyes had shifted, staring at his hidden hand. It made his chest get tighter, but that’s not where Diarmuid should be looking. He grabbed the younger man’s face, pulling it back up to eye level and shook his head, both out of giving Diarmuid directions, and to try to get a hold of his thoughts that wandered. He let his hand rest on Diarmuid’s shoulder, for he really needed it. He wanted to touch more, craved it, but he wouldn’t. Instead, he focused on what little he had given himself, the small patches of heat against his knees and under his palm. His hand gripped tighter onto Diarmuid’s robes when small hands reached up and touched his arm, soft hands against worn skin. It was more than he thought he would ever get to experience, and it made his chest pound harder than ever at the contact. It was too much, yet not enough, and he kept riding an overwhelming edge that he desperately wanted to fall from. 

When the hands moved from his arm to his face and he looked into Diarmuid’s eyes, it was the final push that released him. 

Slowly, the mute lightened his grip on the other’s shoulder and let his head droop, reveling in the aftermath. It had been some time since he had cum so hard and it left him feeling like he could float away. He remembered the hands on his skin, and looked up to see Diarmuid looking back at him, slightly confused, but mostly worried. When he let his head fall again, he was met by the other’s forehead against his. 

“Are you okay?”

The mute couldn’t stop the echo of a laugh from wheezing out of him. Diarmuid really was worried. He nodded against the other’s head to help calm him. 

“So that’s why people do that?”

He grabbed the back of Diarmuid’s neck and gave it a squeeze. That’s why _he_ does it. The release killed his greedy urges at least for a little while. It was the best he could do.

When the mute had a better hold of himself, he turned Diarmuid around so he could redo his pants properly, as well as wipe what he could off of his shirt onto the grass, hopefully avoiding a visible stain. As he hung his shirt up on a tree to dry, the reality of what had just occurred started to sink in. 

He just jacked off in front of the person he loved and they had no idea what was going on. 

The guilt from earlier made its way back to his throat. 

His fears only multiplied when he saw Diarmuid spacing out, dead to the world. His hand instinctively grabbed the younger’s arm to get his attention, causing Diarmuid to jump.

“Sorry,” he apologized, though he had done nothing wrong. “We should rest now. The earlier we leave here, the better.”

The mute bit his tongue and prepared for bed alongside his companion, double checking to make sure their small camp was safe for now. He stayed alert for a bit longer, too many battles preventing otherwise, until he was absolutely certain they were safe.

Finally, he relaxed and let the dread wash over him, burying his face into his bare forearms. He had been incredibly stupid, letting his desires pop up and take control of the situation, a situation that was dangerous to begin with. He should have never done that, or even let the conversation take a turn towards impure things, especially to a monk in training. He let his feelings get in the way, let his weakness for Diarmuid’s soft eyes get the better of him, let himself indulge in the warm touches of the other man.

He should know better than to let himself experience pleasure, or the glimmer of happiness. It only ever led to heartbreak. 

He prayed it didn’t lead to Diarmuid breaking.


	2. Chapter 2

His sleep was a restless one, old memories blending with new ones. The twisted dreams caused him to wake early, right as the sky was changing colors, hinting at the sun’s soon arrival and the start of a new day. Diarmuid still slept nearby, so the mute took to the opportunity to go pray in private as he always did. He prayed for his past sins, as well as his most recent ones, ones that still clung to his skin. 

In his weakness, he tainted something he shouldn’t have. Now, not only did the mute have to deal with the stress of the other soldiers, his own self loathing was added to the pile. 

His instincts seemed to work against him, however, when he found himself protecting Diarmuid from the man named Raymond. He intended to keep his distance from the boy for a while, to somewhat combat his wrongdoings, but the day had barely begun and the two of them were alone in the woods already. Once he was sure Diarmuid was unharmed, he immediately left, doing his best to ignore the look Diarmuid had given him. Hopefully time would fix this and release him of this choking feeling.

Luck didn’t seem to be on his side, unfortunately, for the day kept piling one stressful thing after another onto him. 

Raymond’s men recognized him. They had seen what he had done. They knew the kind of monster he could be. It only made it hurt more when Diarmuid and the other monks defended him from Raymond’s hateful taunts. The holy men had no idea what he was capable of.

Though, they ended up getting a taste when the caravan was ambushed. 

Instincts activated again, and he threw Diarmuid to the ground so he wouldn’t get hit by the rain of projectiles, only for himself to be hit with one instead. The world went dark, only vague sounds and movements. The yells of fighters, the clanging of weapons, the pressure and thumping of someone trying to wake him. It set his mind back, flinging him back in time to the bloodiest years of his life, and he snapped awake to the cry of a familiar voice. 

He was suddenly in the battlefield all over again, and his body moved solely on muscle memory. He didn’t stop to take in faces, only weapons as he used their own tools against the attackers until they’d break and he'd move onto the next one. If they moved opposing him, they were the enemy, and they had to be stopped at all costs. It all blended together, with his only goal being to destroy everything in his way. He didn’t stop and notice his own actions until he heard that familiar voice.

“It’s me! It’s me! It’s me!” came panicked screams from under his palm as he pinned the man down, his other hand raised to strike. 

Soft hands pushed his own away from the hidden face, revealing Diarmuid staring up at him, crying, scared. 

“It’s me…” Diarmuid sofly repeated, voice still tight with fear. 

The mute felt empty. Not only had he tainted the boy the previous night, he almost killed him, which meant Diarmuid saw him for what he truly was, a bloodthirsty monster.

He collapsed to the side, feeling all the blood in his body leave him somehow as his ears filled with the sounds of Diarmuid’s cries. He had hurt the one thing he cared about, the only thing left that was good in his life. There was no forgiveness for this, there couldn’t be. Yet, Diarmuid pried himself off the ground and held him close, urging them to move, ignoring the way the mute looked at him with guilt and sorrow, all the while crying still. 

_I’m sorry._

_I’m so sorry._

_I will do anything to have you forgive me for what I’ve done to you._

**_Anything_** _._

* * *

The party lost Rua and Ciaran, both good men who deserved better. The mute wished Ciaran had been met with a quick death instead of the agonizing torture that he received, a sight familiar to the former crusader. Little did Diarmuid realize as the mute held the boy back from stopping the tragedy that unfolded that the contact was for both of them. He wasn’t sure he could withstand this much of his past catching up to him without Diarmuid’s support. 

Geraldus seemed unfazed as long as they retrieved the rock from the woods. 

Diarmuid offered to carry that burden. Of course he did. He was stronger than the mute ever could be.

After all that had transpired, the mute let himself sleep near Diarmuid as they settled down for the remainder of the night. He didn’t deserve it, but he wanted it. He also wanted to make sure Diarmuid was okay after everything, for the mute himself was far from it. The person he loved crying beneath him was a sight that would haunt him for years to come. 

As sleep failed to grace him, the mute heard movement beside him. In the low light, he saw Diarmuid sit up and let out a sigh into the quiet night. Instinct kicked in again, and he found himself reaching for the younger man, but hesitated. The entire day, he had been rough with Diarmuid, from throwing him to the ground to wrestling him to hold him still. He’d consider himself lucky if Diarmuid ever let him touch him again. Still, touch was his only way of communicating any comfort, so he tentatively placed a hand on the other man’s arm as he sat up as well. 

Diarmuid seemed lost, head moving from here to there as mere outlines of light on shadows. In time, a kind hand laid upon the mute’s in support before the boy started to rise. He then found himself being pulled up off the ground for the second time that day.

Diarmuid’s head was then next to his, followed by a whispered, “Come with me.”

The mute followed as he always did, until they were far enough away from the others that Diarmuid felt comfortable enough to speak.

“I can’t sleep,” he said, and the mute could hear the weight of all that happened in his voice. “I keep seeing people dying, and hear people screaming. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

The older man knew that feeling all too well, and if he knew how to make them stop, he’d do everything to make them stop for Diarmuid. Unfortunately, there was no answer. Seeing death was something that couldn't be forgotten, no matter how hard one tried to purge themselves of it. His sympathetic looks meant nothing in the dark, so he softly put one of his hands against Diarmuid’s cheek in hopes of conveying the same intention. He let his thumb move and stroke the novice’s cheek, and he could feel the dirt and dried blood from earlier still stuck to him, yet another reminder of the day.

“Can you…” Diarmuid slowly said, face moving beneath his hand, “Do what you did last night?”

The mute froze. He couldn’t have heard that right. There was no way Diarmuid asked for such a thing, not after the first time, not after he nearly bashed his head in only hours ago. The choking feeling returned and he tried to withdraw his hand, only to have Diarmuid catch it to hold it in place. 

“It’s strange,” he started, words unsteady. “And, and I understand that. You looked as though you did something wrong afterwards, but still, I… I want… to hear… _you_. Just you…”

His hand tightened around Diarmuid’s as his mind raced. He was being asked to do something he shouldn’t have done in the first place, something Diarmuid even realized was wrong, but he asked anyway. The mute really _had_ tainted him, ruined his innocence, but the part he was asking for still seemed so simple yet confusing. 

Diarmuid wanted to _hear_ him. 

The smaller hand gripped back, waiting for an answer. His mind was screaming that it was a bad idea, just like it was last time, but his other head seemed to think differently. To have him so close during it was a feeling the mute never knew he could have, and he wanted more, even as the guilt threatened to strangle him to death. Diarmuid was also asking for it, begging, pleading, and he wasn’t strong enough to turn it down. 

He moved them to the ground, knees touching once more. He considered taking off his shirt again, but realized the novice couldn’t make out what he’d be doing in the dark regardless. As we went to untie the sides of his pants, he felt Diarmuid pull at his shirt, and he stopped all movement. Knees made their way further towards him, pushing his own knees out of the way to be closer, dangerously so to his groin. Soon, arms encircled his shoulders and he felt Diarmuid’s face press into his neck, skin touching skin. 

The mute couldn’t believe that this was happening, that any of this could be real in any way, but it was. He was on the brink of simply grabbing the other full out and taking what he’d always wanted. Guilt kept him sane, though, for he had already pushed the boundary between them to ludicrous levels. If he pushed any more, he feared Diarmuid would truly break. Still, he’d enjoy what he could get, even if he wasn’t worthy of it, and once he was ready to start, he wrapped an arm around Diarmuid as well. 

He had himself concentrate only on pleasure and the body against his own. It was noticeably warm compared to the cold night air, spurring him on, allowing his imagination to run wild as he pressed a cheek into Diarmuid’s hair. Every time he felt the younger man hug him tighter, the closer he got to release. He had to savor this, remember every feeling, for he wanted it to last a lifetime. This chance would never come again. 

When he was close, he grew bold and buried his face into Diarmuid’s neck, ignoring the cloth and heading straight for skin as he held the monk even tighter. He did his best to silence the screams that wanted to escape his chest as he came. 

They continued to hold each other until the mute came down from his high. He went to clean himself up and realized that the majority of the mess was in fact on Diarmuid’s clothing as opposed to his own. Heavily embarrassed, he wiped away what he could in the dark, and Diarmuid made no move to stop him. 

Diarmuid did, however, reach up and grab the mute’s face, stilling the man. 

The way his fingers pressed into the mute’s skin felt desperate, as though trying to hold something that was fighting to get away. The older man gently grabbed the younger’s wrists, trying to say he wasn’t going away, that he’d prefer to be by Diarmuid’s side than any other place in the world. Fingers finally relaxed and he led them to bed. 

The act that was primarily for the mute seemed to have relaxed the boy enough for him to easily fall asleep against the tree. The mute soon joined him, still wondering why Diarmuid asked for something like that.


	3. Chapter 3

The mute had to save him. He would rather die on some wretched beach alone to keep Diarmuid safe than risk letting those men get anywhere near the boy. 

Besides, their weapons couldn’t hurt as much as Diarmuid screaming at him when he walked away. 

It was a long fight, painful, with the taste of iron filling his mouth, but every now and then he’d look up to see the boat slowly disappearing, going somewhere far safer than here. 

That’s all that mattered. Not the corpses around him, not the stab to the gut, not the weariness from loss of blood. He would keep fighting as long as he could to keep Diarmuid safe. He had to. 

Even when his muscles gave out and worked against him as he tried and tried to stand, he thought of him. He thought of the few times he heard Diarmuid laugh, as well as the day the novice pulled his barely functioning body from the shore. Fitting how his attempt at a peaceful life both started and ended on a beach. 

He fought off the darkness as long as he could before it swallowed him whole.

* * *

A sharp pain went through him, though the world was still dark and far away. He didn’t understand. What was hurting him? What was this thing ripping its way inside of him? He tried to move away, but he was weighed down by unknown forces, pressing into his chest and crushing his lungs. 

Then there was a sound, far away, but he knew that sound. He had to have, for the sound alone helped him relax before the unseen creature sliced deeper into him. Panic returned, with flailing immediately combated with restraints. He needed to get away, he needed to get to that sound, he had to move, he had to go.

 _“We have to go_.”

Warmth graced his cheek and ear and the voice weaved in and out, barely audible. 

“It’s me… muid … hurts … plea … breath … I need … lease… hear it.”

_“It’s me.”_

_Diarmuid_.

He needed to breathe. _He_ needed him to breathe. The mute clenched his jaw and bit his lip, forcing some sort of semblance to even breathing. 

“..s okay… it’s oh… kay, it…” 

The boy’s voice was farther away, but it was there. He tried to focus on the sound as the beast wriggled against his insides. 

Then hot fire erupted within him and he couldn’t stop himself from screaming into the void. Every time the fire lifted, another would strike, ripping more screams from his throat. It was too much, he was too tired, he couldn’t keep fighting like this, but he didn’t want to let go of Diarmuid. He didn’t know how or why Diarmuid was close by, but it filled him with hope that he would see him again. The mute would pay anything to see him again. 

The last thing he remembered was the familiar feeling of a forehead pressed against his own before the world faded once more.


	4. Chapter 4

There was something against him, something warm pressed into the skin of his shoulder and chest as steady puffs of hot air skimmed across the surface. It was comforting, whatever it was. 

The salt in the air made its way into his nose, and the mute recognized the smell. It was the ocean. It was the smell of gathering kelp and razor clams with Diarmuid.

 _Diarmuid_. 

He tried to move his body, and ever so slowly did it seem to come to life. Disappointedly, the warmth beside him disappeared with his movement, but it wasn’t what was important at the moment. He needed to wake up. 

Finally, his eyes decided to open, flinching at the brightness of the sun. It took a moment for the world to come into focus, and above him, Diarmuid was looking down at him, eyes wide and face warm. A part of him doubted it was real and raised his hand to touch him. His arm bumped into something, but his hand was gently guided to the high corner of Diarmuid’s back. 

He really was there, beside him, safe. The mute wasn’t sure how, or why, but there he was. His loving eyes were becoming glossy and his mouth began to twist, causing the mute’s eyebrows to furrow. 

He moved his hand from Diarmuid’s back to rest fingertips against the young man’s neck, eyes flicking back and forth between Diarmuid’s as the boy started to cry.

“You left.”

The weakness and hurt in those words stabbed him in the chest. He was the reason Diarmuid was crying.

“You left, and I thought you would never come back. Don’t ever leave me again. Okay?”

The words were garbled through sobs, but he understood, and pulled Diarmuid closer until their foreheads touched. It felt just like the one from the void. 

Though not said aloud, the mute promised to never leave again. It was an easy promise to make, for he didn’t think he could withstand leaving Diarmuid again. Especially not now, not after seeing how much pain he had left the boy in, not after feeling Diarmuid’s tears against his own skin as the boy cried above him.

Diarmuid didn’t stay nearly long enough, and he pulled away, sitting somewhere in the mute’s peripheral. He went to sit up to better see Diarmuid, but got met with sharp pain and groaned.

“You’re not fully healed yet,” Diarmuid said as he wiped his face and steadied his breathing. He leaned out of sight, but soon returned, holding something. “Here,” he said, and the pop of a cork was heard.

The rim of the waterskin was pressed to his lips, and water rapidly filled his mouth. It wasn’t cold, but still incredibly refreshing as he hadn’t realized how parched he was or how dry his mouth had been. Over half the skin was drained by the time he had enough, leaving only a bit behind. He watched Diarmuid hold it up to his ear to listen while he shook it, then looked down somewhere around the mute’s torso. 

“Brace yourself.”

Water hit his stomach and pain bloomed outwards. He kept his jaw tight and breathed through his nose, keeping still as possible as he felt nimble fingers caress his wound, removing clumps of dark material and pressing something green into the holes his torso recently acquired. Once everything appeared to be in place, Diarmuid’s hand ran once more over the mute’s stomach to check his handiwork. The touch was calming after the bouts of stinging.

Diarmuid started to move out of sight, so the mute tried to sit up once more.

“Stop,” Diarmuid commanded softly and pushed his shoulders to encourage him to lay back down. “Please rest, at least a little while longer. I’m just going over there to see if there’s any food.”

He followed the pointed finger over to where there were remains of the supply boat they had commandeered. It was close by, and no one else seemed to be around either. Slowly, he laid back down, now recognizing for the first time that his head was on a makeshift pillow. Upon further inspection, it was Diarmuid’s scapula, which made him wonder if the young man was cold.

After some time and much bustling, Diarmuid returned with food in hand and they ate quietly. He kept sitting up partially to eat, but Diarmuid would combat it with nudges to have him lay back down. The mute’s stubbornness won in the end when Diarmuid caved and made a backboard out of a broken barrel, allowing him to sit up enough so he could more easily see his companion. Then, his shirt was presented to him, far cleaner than the mute thought it should have been. As he took the fabric from Diarmuid, he noticed the smallest tremble in the monk’s hand. So he _was_ cold. 

Diarmuid declined taking back his scapula several times, insisting it’d be better used as a pillow for the time being. Once again, the mute’s stubbornness won out, refusing to wear his own shirt unless Diarmuid took it back, and Diarmuid reluctantly agreed. The expression of comfort did not escape the mute when Diarmuid put it on.

Soon, the two of them were staring out to sea, side by side, almost like they were back at the monastery, ignoring their chores and taking in nature. 

“The others are gone.”

The mute turned his head to face Diarmuid and see how worn down the boy was. 

“Brother Cathal was shot with an arrow. The boatman and I buried him in the woods.” Diarmuid nodded towards the woods behind them. “Frere Geraldus was lost at sea, along with the rock.”

He watched the boy curl into himself and he reached out to put a hand on his leg, prompting Diarmuid to finally look at him. 

“It’s my fault,” his voice was unsteady, cracking at unexpected times. “Geraldus said the relic was going to be used to make people fight and die in the name of the Lord, just like you.” The extra layer of sadness in those last three words stung the mute’s heart. “It all felt wrong, as though every kind thing the brothers taught me growing up meant nothing. I tried to toss the relic into the ocean, but Geraldus stopped me. Choked me. I was scared, so I kicked him off… both he and the relic fell into the water and never resurfaced.”

The more he heard Diarmuid talk, the more the mute regretted abandoning him to fight off Raymond’s men. He should have been there to protect Diarmuid from Geraldus and his twisted perception of what was right and wrong. He should have simply killed the man earlier when he had the chance, with his pathetic jaw beneath the mute’s fingers. Diarmuid wouldn’t look so broken if it weren’t for that man.

They never would have left the monastery and lost the other brothers if it weren’t for that man.

He pushed the hateful thoughts out of his mind and relocated his hand to the back of Diarmuid’s neck. It must have been what the boy needed, for he let out a slow breath and the mute could feel some tension leave Diarmuid’s shoulders. 

“I don't know what to believe anymore. Or what I should do now. I thought I was going to be a monk and spend the rest of my life at a monastery, but now that I see the kind of acts people do in the name of God, I’m not so sure anymore.”

For that, the mute had no answer, and let his hand slip away as Diarmuid tilted his head to the sky. 

“We can’t stay on this beach forever.”

He was right. It was only a matter of time before raiders come and find them, or worse, soldiers. They had already spent too much time here. It also didn’t help that Raymond’s body wasn’t anywhere to be found. It made the mute want to leave the beach even more so. Carefully, he went to stand with Diarmuid naturally trying to stop him. After some insisting, the boy let him stand on his own. The experience definitely wasn’t pain free, but he’d dealt with worse. When he felt stable, he nodded towards the woods, telling Diarmuid it was time to go. Diarmuid only hesitated for a moment before gathering their belongings. 

With his sword in one hand and Diarmuid as a crutch under the other, they made their way into the woods. They didn’t get far before they paused next to a tree with an arrow sticking out of the ground, and the mute realized it was the grave of Cathal.

“We should return to the monastery,” said Diarmuid. “To tell the others what happened. They deserve to know what happened to their brothers.”

The mute nodded, fully in agreement with Diarmuid’s sentiment. He gave their surroundings a good look before determining which direction would lead back to the monastery. It would take time, but he would get them there. Diarmuid’s heart could use the sense of peace of letting his family rest after all they had been through.

* * *

They traveled through the woods, avoiding the road for the most part. It was the safer option, since the mute didn’t feel he was unhindered enough to competently fight. The first day was slow, as he had to figure out his limitations with movements, but after the first day, he felt comfortable enough to walk with minimal pain. The faster the two of them got to the monastery, the better. The current land was far too dangerous for the mute’s taste. 

No fires, no talking. Both could alarm the enemies of their presence. Now and then, he’d hear something, small indicators of more troubling things. He’d steer their small party away, just to be safe, causing their path to be zigzagged in pattern. They would only stop to camp in places where the mute felt it was the most untouched, far from both native and foreign intruders.

Both times, Diarmuid sat close to him as the light faded from the sky. He wondered if it was due to a new fear he set in the boy, one involving him disappearing again. As they ate that second night, his wondering was confirmed when Diarmuid spoke.

“You know,” he said, words soft. “I thought you were dead when I found you.”

Guilt’s claws returned to the mute’s throat. 

“It was the worst pain I had ever felt.” He was quiet for a moment, then laughed pitifully. “I watched all three of my fellow brothers die in front of me, but the idea of you being gone… that was too much. I’m not a very good monk, am I?”

The mute was both pleased and saddened by the statement. The greedy part of him lapped up how much Diarmuid cared about him, the closest he’d get to the love he had for the younger man. However, to overshadow the men who raised and cared for Diarmuid as their own son was hard to take in its own way. It didn’t help that an echo of misery hung on his young face. In a feeble attempt to tell Diarmuid it was okay, he nudged the boy lightly with his arm.

There was more silence as Diarmuid thought.

“When the boat runner was removing the prong from your stomach… could you hear me?”

So _that’s_ what was happening when he was getting attacked in the dark. The man had been curious how his insides remained… _inside_. He closed his eyes and thought back, remembering the echoes of Diarmuid in the darkness. He opened his eyes to see the owner of the voice looking back, hopeful. When the mute nodded, Diarmuid then smiled shyly to himself. 

“Do you like my voice?”

He was taken aback a bit by the question, but he answered truthfully with another nod. He loved Diarmuid’s voice. He wished he could hear it everyday for the rest of his life. 

“I like your voice, too.”

His brain ground to a halt. Considering the mute has never spoken a word in front of Diarmuid, it could only mean one thing.

Diarmuid liked the noises he made while he jacked off to thoughts of him.

“Can I… hear it again? Or have I crossed a line…”

The mute was starting to wonder if this was a cruel joke from God. He was to derive pleasure from Diarmuid without truly _being_ with Diarmuid, all the while the object of his affection watched it unfold. Curiosity itched at him as to why his friend kept asking for this, if it really was as innocent as to simply hear the sounds he made, or if it was for the younger man _at all_. 

Gently, he grabbed Diarmuid’s chin so he could look at him, _really_ look at him. He wanted to know if this was something Diarmuid wanted for himself or was it just something he was doing because the mute seemed to like it. There was no sign of anxiety to be seen, nor regret, now that he stopped to notice. Just the regular honesty he saw in Diarmuid’s eyes whenever the young man talked to him. It seemed Diarmuid _did_ want this, all on his own accord.

The thought of Diarmuid wanting him in anyway sent a twitch of excitement through the mute. 

They got into position and faced one another, legs touching as he started to untie pants. Hands caught his wrists suddenly, and the man looked up, confused and unmoving. Maybe he read Diarmuid’s intentions wrong…

“Can … I mean…” as Diarmuid searched for words, he inched closer until his legs were partially on top of the older man’s legs. It made his heart lift closer to his throat. “I… want to be the one who, um, makes you make those sounds…”

The mute clenched his fists trying to control himself, and carefully thought about what had just been said. Did he hear that right? Did Diarmuid just ask to give him a handjob?

The younger man let go of him, withdrawing into himself. He held a look of nervous determination. 

“Can you teach me?”

Fear held the mute in place, fear he was using his friend for his own self desires. While he battled with his thoughts, Diarmuid waited patiently. The boy had always been patient with him since the day they met. He did his best to push past his fear and told himself that Diarmuid was making the decision. 

Diarmuid _wanted_ this.

After a deep breath to still his leaping stomach, he undid both sides of his pants to reveal himself fully to the novice, who’s eyes widened slightly at the situation, one the mute was sure he had never been in before. The older looked away to help his nerves as he rolled and tucked back his shirt. When it felt well enough out of the way, he paused, then led Diarmuid closer and changed their positions so his legs were on top of the younger man’s legs. Cautiously, as to not scare Diarmuid, he guided a soft hand to his cock and showed him how to milk out precum to use as lubrication before they started the process together, hand in hand. 

Thankfully, Diarmuid was a quick learner, letting the mute withdraw and grip the young man’s shoulder for support as the dream of a hundred nights occurred, receiving intimate touches from the one he loved. The pleasure was far different from dealing with it on his own. Every tightening of the fingers, every bend of the wrist, every drag across the sensitive head was unexpected. He also didn’t expect Diarmuid’s other hand to reach up and pull him closer. 

Something was spurring the monk on, for his pacing sped up, making the man grip his shoulder harder. He chewed his bottom lip until slick seamless stimulation became tacky. They needed more lubrication. 

The mute grabbed Diarmuid’s wrist and brought the hand upto his mouth. He gathered as much saliva as he could and let it drip past his lips into the waiting palm, then let go. He stared at the other, still questioning the reality of it all until the warm, wet hand gripped him, confirming that it was _very_ real. Diarmuid was right there, touching him, making his every nerve go wild within him, and doing it of his own volition. He buried his face into his love’s neck and let himself enjoy what was given to him, even if he had do idea as to how or why he deserved it. 

When Diarmuid’s tongue touched the mute’s cock, he couldn’t stop the groan that left him. 

He didn’t stand a chance of lasting much longer after that.

Just as he felt the crash of climax, he yanked Diarmuid away so he wouldn’t shoot into the inexperienced mouth and cause choking, and instead let the mess spread outwards onto his pants, Diarmuid’s robes, and drip down the shaft. 

Gradually, he regained control of his senses and cleaned the mess he made, aware that Diarmuid’s eyes were still on him. Once cleaned, he looked back at the younger man who was intensely studying him. There were the smallest signs of Diarmuid being winded as his mouth had been preoccupied only moments ago, as well as saliva at the corners of his lips. The mute wanted to lick them, and taste the inside of the mouth that had just been wrapped around his dick, but he didn’t, and instead cleared away Diarmuid’s bangs to softly kiss his forehead instead. He didn’t have that permission yet, the full trust of Diarmuid to touch places no other has touched before, including his mouth. He respected and cared for the boy too much to do otherwise. 

They touched foreheads, one of the few touches he knew he was allowed to do. Diarmuid’s hands found their way to either side of his head and the mute enjoyed the way the boy’s thumbs brushed through his hair. 

“Would you be mad if I said the sounds you make are pretty?”

The comment was unexpected, and so was the chuckle from the mute’s throat. He then rubbed his forehead vigorously against Diarmuid’s, who then laughed in turn. It was a beautiful laugh.

He couldn’t wrap his head around why Diarmuid kept asking for these things, or why he would ever call anything related to the mute “pretty,” but he couldn't deny how much it filled his heart with warmth and love.


	5. Chapter 5

They were getting closer to the border. If they kept good pace, they would reach safe territory before the sun set, which would be ideal. The mute wanted Diarmuid as far from danger as possible. 

Their walking led them between the roads and a stream, which was both good and bad. It was good for the fact their waterskins were running low. It was bad because it raised their chances of an encounter. They walked along the steepest curve of the hill in hopes of being more hidden, as well as close enough to the river that it masked their movement. When the sun was at its highest, and the mute found a safe location, they stopped to eat lunch, as well as refill their waterskins. 

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

The mute turned to the boy beside him and raised an eyebrow. 

“For last night,” Diarmuid continued. 

The mute’s stomach soured as he replayed the events of last night in his head. Was Diarmuid regretting everything? Had he hated it? His fearful thoughts were cut off by more words.

“I keep asking you to do… well,  _ unusual _ things. And last night in particular, at the start anyway, you looked… scared. So, I’m sorry.”

He stared at Diarmuid, then slowly ran a hand through brown hair until it rested on the back of the boy’s head. No matter how terrifying a situation was, the mute would always do it if Diarmuid asked him to. Even if it was painful, even if it was sexual, even if Diarmuid didn’t understand what he wanted, the mute would do anything Diarmuid asked of him. He would alway put the one he loved before all else, even himself. 

“I don’t like being the reason you’re upset.”

He wasn’t upset because of Diarmuid. He was upset at himself, and the fear of failing or hurting Diarmuid in any way.

“I keep being selfish, only really caring about what I want, which I shouldn’t be doing. I shouldn’t ask you to do those kinds of things to begin with, but…”

The mute gripped his thigh in anticipation. 

“It’s just … I get a weird feeling when it happens.”

… What?

“It’s… I get really warm, and it feels like my chest wants to burst.”

… Was Diarmuid saying he had feelings for him?

“I also like how peaceful you look afterwards. It makes me happy when you’re happy.”

Energy shot through the mute’s entire system. Diarmuid said he  _ liked _ what they did together. He also admitted that he liked  _ him _ , he just didn’t know the words for it yet. He liked the sounds that the mute made, as well as the way bliss would swallow him afterwards, both of which were things the mute desperately wanted to do to Diarmuid. 

He lifted his hands and placed them on Diarmuid’s face, one holding each cheek, and stared him in the eyes. He wanted to make sure he was reading this right, that his love was reciprocated. There was slight confusion in the way Diarmuid looked back at him, but he could see it, the trust and love that the mute had found within himself whenever Diarmuid was around him. 

“So… I…” the younger barely spoke, words quiet between them. 

_ Please… allow me to make you feel what I felt. _

“If there’s something I can do to make it up for it, I’ll do whatever you want me to… do…”

_ I want you to feel amazing. _

There was no hesitation when the mute kissed Diarmuid, for it was something he’d wanted to do for a long time. He let himself enjoy the softness of Diarmuid’s mouth against his, then explored the inside, feeling a wary tongue brush up against him as he found a sweet spot that made him want more. He wrapped an arm around Diarmuid to pull him closer, and lifted robes away from his pale throat to let him kiss more of him. The mute wanted to feel it all, his skin, his body, even his veins pulse under the mute’s lips. 

Judging by the soft grunts Diarmuid was making, he was getting hard, just what the mute wanted. He returned to kissing the boy while his hand blindly navigated to the end of Diarmuid’s robe. Once found, he hiked it up and out of the way, giving him better access to the shaking body beneath. When rough hands found the smooth skin of Diarmuid’s chest, there was a tug within him and a sudden hunger he had never felt before. Now that he finally was able to taste what he’d wanted for over a year now, it was all that mattered, and he wanted more of it. 

The small gasp that came from Diarmuid at his touch only encouraged that hunger.

One hand traveled up the boy’s sleeve so he could hold the trembling body up with skin touching skin along his back. The other hand traveled down the panting chest until he found the cord of Diarmuid’s pants and undid them as he sucked on the boy’s neck, feeling the Adam's apple jump every time he desperately swallowed. Once the tie was undone, he slid his hand down, following the thin trail of hair until he reached what he was looking for. 

Diarmuid nearly whimpered, and the mute whipped his head up to watch Diarmuid’s face as he milked out precum to use as lube. He wanted to make sure he felt good, felt the rush that the mere  _ thought _ of being with Diarmuid gave him. The boy’s face was flushed, losing control of his saliva when the mute would kiss him now and then, dripping out of the corners of his mouth. His eyes kept fluttering, trying to stay open yet failing. His voice kept cracking, pants interrupted by gasps and groans. His hands grasped onto whatever part of the mute they could find for dear life, and the mute held him just as tight. The man brought Diarmuid close to his chest so he could run his teeth along his jaw and neck, aware that Diarmuid’s voice was getting higher and his breathing was faster. He was close.

The mute pressed as much of their bodies together as he could, face nestled against Diarmuid’s cheek and waited for it, waited for the younger man to orgasm because of  _ him _ . 

The screams buried in his shoulder gave him chills, and he nipped his way down the neck that was beaded with sweat, then nuzzled his face into flushed skin. He held his love close, letting the boy catch his breath, then slowly withdrew his hand from under dark robes, with Diarmuid making a small noise of surprise at the motion. Gently, he lowered Diarmuid to the ground so he could clean the mess he caused, that he  _ gladly _ caused. The dreamy look on the boy’s face made him crack a small smile. He eventually pulled his eyes away to get to work.

As he was tying the monk’s pants back into place, he heard a noise to their left. Nothing appeared to be close by as he scanned the area, looking for any and all signs of movement. Be that as it may, he was left on edge, his moment of bliss cut short at the chance of danger. He separated from Diarmuid, grabbed his sword, and gave the area another visual sweep, sure he missed something. 

He didn’t find anything, but still had a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

After Diarmuid grabbed his things, they moved quietly through the woods, crouched and constantly listening for anything unusual. Much time passed, but eventually he heard sounds that didn’t belong in a forest. 

The steady gait of metal-shoed horses with the jostling of armor. 

Quickly, he found a decent spot behind some trees and shrubs to hide, using leaves to camouflage them further as they laid as flat as they could in the grass. As the steps got closer, he put his hand on Diarmuid’s head to make sure it didn’t pop up. He was a curious boy, and the mute loved that part of him, but now wasn’t the time to be curious. It was time to be unseen.

The closer they got, the more the mute could make out what they were saying. 

“Couldn’t decide if he was distraught or elated at his son's death.”

“Yeah, neither could I. I’m glad he’s gone, personally. Aggressive, that one.”

“At least there was never a dull moment with him around.”

“True.”

“I still can’t believe he brought a pack of monks into the camp. What a crazy bastard.” 

One laughed loudly. “That was an interesting night, alright. Rainier was so desperate for a fuck, he was thinking of taking the boy.”

“Not if Alain didn’t fuck him first.”

“Knowing him, he would have fucked the boy right there in front of everyone if that ex soldier hadn’t showed up.”

“I am stunned that it was HIM, the beast of the battlefront. God’s Demon himself. I honestly thought he was dead.”

“Well, he is now, according to Raymond’s men.”

“What’s left of them anyway.” 

“Would have loved for them to bring him back as well. Display his head on a pike.”

“Not me. I’ll stay as far away from him as possible, thank you, even if it’s just a head.”

“What, afraid he’ll take revenge?”

“Considering it’s God’s Demon? I don’t want to take my chances.”

They continued talking about him as they faded off into the distance, and the mute did his best to not think about those times or the monster he was. He had always hated that title. He didn’t think he’d ever hear it again, nor did he ever  _ want _ to hear it again. The thought that he was immortalized amongst the soldiers raised the hair on the back of his neck, known only as a beast on a battlefield of men. He felt sick to his stomach.

The movement of Diarmuid’s head under his hand brought him back from his thoughts to the real world. 

Right.

He listened closely and could hear only the faint noises of them walking away, further into the woods, further away from them. Now that it was safe, he released his hold on Diarmuid and stood, the young monk rising with him. The mute double checked the sky and gauged how much time they had lost from both fun and fear, then had them return to walking, though much faster this time around. 

When they crossed the border, he finally relaxed, and let the two of them walk calmly for a bit under the full moon in the clear night sky until they found a good place to camp. Knowing that the territory was safe, he built a fire to keep them warm, and they ate what little was left of their rations in peace.

Diarmuid stared at him afterwards, making the mute nervous. He had a feeling it was because of what he did earlier, which he was starting to overthink about. Maybe he had been too forceful, too aggressive, and it changed the way Diarmuid thought of him. Or worse, Diarmuid hated it. 

Either way, he had been right about what was on Diarmuid’s mind, for Diarmuid crawled closer and sat right in front of him, staring him down and said, “Earlier, when you kissed me, it felt like you wanted to do that for a while now…”

He looked away, into the fire. He had wanted to kiss Diarmuid for ages, though now he was afraid Diarmuid hadn’t wanted such a thing. He looked back towards the boy, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“Am I wrong?”

_ No. You’re not wrong. _

“I mean, I liked it.”

The mute’s eyes stopped their avoidant wandering and looked at Diarmuid. He…  _ did _ like it?

“I like when I touch you, and when you touch me. I… like  _ everything _ about you.” 

His heart swelled at the words. To love someone, and have them love back, it was almost too much for him. Too perfect. He had to know, had to confirm it, and gently grabbed Diarmuid’s chin as he gave the boy a slow, meaningful kiss, then pulled away.

Diarmuid smiled back at him, warm and welcoming. Truly happy.

It took the mute a second to realize he was smiling back, just as broadly, something he hadn’t done in ages. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt such joy envelop him, but he loved it, almost as much as he loved Diarmuid.

He never knew his heart could feel this light.

* * *

Diarmuid was nervous as they approached the monastery. Understandably so. He was about to tell several holy men about their fallen brothers.

Upon entering the grounds, monks came flocking out to see the sight, two very tired men returning from a terrible journey. He was not a fan of the way the monks looked at the sword held in his hand, then back at him with wary eyes, but he was more concerned with Diarmuid, who was looking at their leader, the eldest of the monks.

“I did not expect your return,” said the man. The mute could feel the disappointment in his words. “You were supposed to accompany the relic all the way to Rome. The fact you have returned bodes ill.”

“Brother Ciaran, Brother Rua, and Brother Cathal have all passed away during the journey.”

Diarmuid’s voice was trying to stay neutral, but the mute could hear sadness seep through. There was the slightest twitch in Diarmuid’s hand when the other monks murmured amongst themselves at the news.

“And what of the relic?”

“It’s… gone, sir. Along with Frere Geraldus.”

Abba sighed. “By gone, I assume you mean lost, or stolen.”

He watched Diarmuid clench his jaw for a moment, most likely reliving the events on the boat in his head. The mute knew that guilt would follow the boy the rest of his life. That kind of guilt was a familiar feeling, one he knew well.

“I gave the rock back to God, as it should have been done long ago.”

The way silence swept over the monks and the heavy eyes that laid upon Diarmuid caused the novice to look down, shoulders falling under the weight of it all. The mute put his hand on one of those shoulders, hopefully sending at least some of his strength to Diarmuid, to shield him from such crushing weight, and to remind him that the mute would always be there for him. After looking up at him for a moment, the young monk turned back to his peers.

“I merely wished to tell you the fates of your brothers, and perhaps request a place to stay for the night before we leave in the morning.”

He had a feeling that was coming, that Diarmuid no longer felt worthy of living amongst his pious brothers after what he had endured. If that was what Diarmuid wanted, he wouldn’t stop him.

“Leave?” piped up one of the others. “With you being the last alive of our brothers, you wish to leave?”

“I don’t belong here anymore. I have done things, sinful things, that cannot be undone. I am not worthy of this robe any longer.”

For the first time in their discussion, Abba looked upon Diarmuid with sadness in his eyes and placed a hand atop the boy’s head.

“You are free to do as you wish. Know that God walks with you, and that He will forgive you if you are willing to forgive yourself.”

That was the hardest part, forgiving yourself. The mute was unsure if he could ever forgive himself for all that he had done. Although, now that he knew that someone could love him despite all of that, after seeing what he could do, what he had done, perhaps there was hope for forgiveness yet. 

He hoped the same for Diarmuid as the two set out the next morning, heading towards a town a different monk had directed them to, a town called Saoirse. They walked side by side, Diarmuid in some of the mute’s old clothes, each carrying very little on their journey to a new life. What awaited them, only God would know, but as long as the mute was by Diarmuid’s side, he knew they could withstand it. 

With a love like theirs, they could withstand anything. 


End file.
